Impassive, as behoves its high breeding, the Dedlock town housestares at the other houses in the street of dismal grandeur andgives no outward sign of anything going wrong within. Carriagesrattle, doors are battered at, the world exchanges calls; ancientcharmers with skeleton throats and peachy cheeks that have a ratherghastly bloom upon them seen by daylight, when indeed thesefascinating creatures look like Death and the Lady fused together,dazzle the eyes of men. Forth from the frigid mews come easilyswinging carriages guided by short-legged coachmen in flaxen wigs,deep sunk into downy hammercloths, and up behind mount lusciousMercuries bearing sticks of state and wearing cocked hatsbroadwise, a spectacle for the angels.
The Dedlock town house changes not externally, and hours passbefore its exalted dullness is disturbed within. But Volumnia thefair, being subject to the prevalent complaint of boredom andfinding that disorder attacking her spirits with some virulence,ventures at length to repair to the library for change of scene.
Her gentle tapping at the door producing no response, she opens itand peeps in; seeing no one there, takes possession.
The sprightly Dedlock is reputed, in that grass-grown city of theancients, Bath, to be stimulated by an urgent curiosity whichimpels her on all convenient and inconvenient occasions to sidleabout with a golden glass at her eye, peering into objects of everydescription. Certain it is that she avails herself of the presentopportunity of hovering over her kinsman's letters and papers likea bird, taking a short peck at this document and a blink with herhead on one side at that document, and hopping about from table totable with her glass at her eye in an inquisitive and restlessmanner. In the course of these researches she stumbles oversomething, and turning her glass in that direction, sees herkinsman lying on the ground like a felled tree.
Volumnia's pet little scream acquires a considerable augmentationof reality from this surprise, and the house is quickly incommotion. Servants tear up and down stairs, bells are violentlyrung, doctors are sent for, and Lady Dedlock is sought in alldirections, but not found. Nobody has seen or heard her since shelast rang her bell. Her letter to Sir Leicester is discovered onher table, but it is doubtful yet whether he has not receivedanother missive from another world requiring to be personallyanswered, and all the living languages, and all the dead, are asone to him.
They lay him down upon his bed, and chafe, and rub, and fan, andput ice to his head, and try every means of restoration. Howbeit,the day has ebbed away, and it is night in his room before hisstertorous breathing lulls or his fixed eyes show any consciousnessof the candle that is occasionally passed before them. But whenthis change begins, it goes on; and by and by he nods or moves hiseyes or even his hand in token that he hears and comprehends.
He fell down, this morning, a handsome stately gentleman, somewhatinfirm, but of a fine presence, and with a well-filled face. Helies upon his bed, an aged man with sunken cheeks, the decrepitshadow of himself. His voice was rich and mellow and he had solong been thoroughly persuaded of the weight and import to mankindof any word he said that his words really had come to sound as ifthere were something in them. But now he can only whisper, andwhat he whispers sounds like what it is--mere jumble and jargon.
His favourite and faithful housekeeper stands at his bedside. Itis the first act he notices, and he clearly derives pleasure fromit. After vainly trying to make himself understood in speech, hemakes signs for a pencil. So inexpressively that they cannot atfirst understand him; it is his old housekeeper who makes out whathe wants and brings in a slate.
After pausing for some time, he slowly scrawls upon it in a handthat is not his, "Chesney Wold?"No, she tells him; he is in London. He was taken ill in thelibrary this morning. Right thankful she is that she happened tocome to London and is able to attend upon him.
"It is not an illness of any serious consequence, Sir Leicester.
You will be much better to-morrow, Sir Leicester. All thegentlemen say so." This, with the tears coursing down her fair oldface.
After making a survey of the room and looking with particularattention all round the bed where the doctors stand, he writes, "MyLady.""My Lady went out, Sir Leicester, before you were taken ill, anddon't know of your illness yet."He points again, in great agitation, at the two words. They alltry to quiet him, but he points again with increased agitation. Ontheir looking at one another, not knowing what to say, he takes theslate once more and writes "My Lady. For God's sake, where?" Andmakes an imploring moan.
It is thought better that his old housekeeper should give him LadyDedlock's letter, the contents of which no one knows or cansurmise. She opens it for him and puts it out for his perusal.
Having read it twice by a great effort, he turns it down so that itshall not be seen and lies moaning. He passes into a kind ofrelapse or into a swoon, and it is an hour before he opens hiseyes, reclining on his faithful and attached old servant's arm.
The doctors know that he is best with her, and when not activelyengaged about him, stand aloof.
The slate comes into requisition again, but the word he wants towrite he cannot remember. His anxiety, his eagerness, andaffliction at this pass are pitiable to behold. It seems as if hemust go mad in the necessity he feels for haste and the inabilityunder which he labours of expressing to do what or to fetch whom.
He has written the letter B, and there stopped. Of a sudden, inthe height of his misery, he puts Mr. before it. The oldhousekeeper suggests Bucket. Thank heaven! That's his meaning.
Mr. Bucket is found to be downstairs, by appointment. Shall hecome up?
There is no possibility of misconstruing Sir Leicester's burningwish to see him or the desire he signifies to have the room clearedof every one but the housekeeper. It is speedily done, and Mr.
Bucket appears. Of all men upon earth, Sir Leicester seems fallenfrom his high estate to place his sole trust and reliance upon thisman.
"Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I'm sorry to see you like this. Ihope you'll cheer up. I'm sure you will, on account of the familycredit."Leicester puts her letter in his hands and looks intently in hisface while he reads it. A new intelligence comes into Mr. Bucket'seye as he reads on; with one hook of his finger, while that eye isstill glancing over the words, he indicates, "Sir LeicesterDedlock, Baronet, I understand you."Sir Leicester writes upon the slate. "Full forgiveness. Find--"Mr. Bucket stops his hand.
"Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet, I'll find her. But my searchafter her must be begun out of hand. Not a minute must be lost."With the quickness of thought, he follows Sir Leicester Dedlock'slook towards a little box upon a table.
"Bring it here, Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet? Certainly. Openit with one of these here keys? Certainly. The littlest key? TObe sure. Take the notes out? So I will. Count 'em? That's soondone. Twenty and thirty's fifty, and twenty's seventy, and fifty'sone twenty, and forty's one sixty. Take 'em for expenses? ThatI'll do, and render an account of course. Don't spare money? No Iwon't."The velocity and certainty of Mr. Bucket's interpretation on allthese heads is little short of miraculous. Mrs. Rouncewell, whoholds the light, is giddy with the swiftness of his eyes and handsas he starts up, furnished for his journey.
"You're George's mother, old lady; that's about what you are, Ibelieve?" says Mr. Bucket aside, with his hat already on andbuttoning his coat.
"Yes, sir, I am his distressed mother.""So I thought, according to what he mentioned to me just now.
Well, then, I'll tell you something. You needn't be distressed nomore. Your son's all right. Now, don't you begin a-crying,because what you've got to do is to take care of Sir LeicesterDedlock, Baronet, and you won't do that by crying. As to your son,he's all right, I tell you; and he sends his loving duty, andhoping you're the same. He's discharged honourable; that's aboutwhat HE is; with no more imputation on his character than there ison yours, and yours is a tidy one, I'LL bet a pound. You may trustme, for I took your son. He conducted himself in a game way, too,on that occasion; and he's a fine-made man, and you're a fine-madeold lady, and you're a mother and son, the pair of you, as might beshowed for models in a caravan. Sir Leicester Dedlock, Baronet,what you've trusted to me I'll go through with. Don't you beafraid of my turing out of my way, right or left, or taking asleep, or a wash, or a shave till I............